


Kindertotenlieder

by zulu



Category: House M.D.
Genre: 07-11, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-29
Updated: 2007-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Songs on the death of children.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindertotenlieder

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to severuslovesme for the beta.

**Kindertotenlieder**

I wish I could have done something, Wilson says. I'm so sorry.

The room is dark. Andie's mother sits on the bed at her hip, holding her hand.

There was nothing else left to try, he says. And she's not in pain, now.

Wilson has been teaching acceptance for as long as he's been an oncologist. Longer, maybe. It all goes back so much longer. The trail of losses he's endured, the defeats he's borne up under, the set-backs that made him sigh and press his fingers to his eyes and roll up his sleeves because his paperwork needs to be signed, his charting dictated, his committees chaired, his department managed--

Wilson accepts.

He counts: his brother, one. His marriages, two through four. And the rest. His patients. His patience. God, how they die.

Andie is smiling. Wilson whispers the time of death. He slips out of her room, leaving behind the wet sound of tears, the warmth and vague nausea of a new death. He's not wanted. He can only be an intrusion.

I need this not to happen, Wilson thinks. Not today. Not now.

His office is dark. His eyes are dry.

I wish, he says. I wish.

 

***

 

Oh, yes, remissions are possible. Medical miracles, magic that science doesn't understand. And if he stays at work long enough, then maybe the tumors will shrink, and fade, and clear away. If he makes sure his patients are comfortable, and if he visits them, and touches his hand to their shoulders, just _so_\--

If he feels responsible, for every patient, for every family--

Wilson opens another envelope, slides the films into the lightbox. Adenocarcinoma, dark stains on the images. He spreads the tests out on his desk.

If he lives in a hotel and goes home alone every night--

The most recent bloodwork, the last in-patient evaluation.

If he watches House, and never says a word--

The patient isn't getting worse.

If he--

"Wilson!" House bellows, two rooms away and closing fast. The door slams open and House sticks his head in, happier than he's been in months. The game's afoot. "Pizza and porn?" he says. "You're providing."

Wilson grins, then shakes his head. He laughs. You're going to live, he will say. You're going to be fine. "Which?" he asks, "the pizza or the porn?"

House lifts an eyebrow. Wilson follows him home.

Oh yes, he says. Oh yes.

 

***

 

Just once, Wilson wants a day when he doesn't have to worry. If, he says, then--

"Call in sick," House says. "Idiot," he murmurs, fondly, so satisfied that he sprawls.

Wilson reaches for his phone. If he has Carol reschedule; if Brown takes the staff meeting. Then, he says, then--

House hmphs, some indeterminate sound, and gets up on one elbow. He rasps his chin across Wilson's shoulder, then kisses the back of his neck. Wilson opens his mouth, _wants_, gasping. House's teeth are firm and slick, his tongue hot and teasing. Wilson tilts his head. House bites once, sharply, before he's gone. When Wilson turns around, House is lying on his back. His eyes are hooded and he's staring at something Wilson can't see. His hand's on his thigh, but he's half-hard, the line of his cock showing through the sheet. For him, twice in a night is probably unheard of.

Wilson turns his phone off. The lamp's dim. He kisses House's chest, his shoulders, the line of his bicep, while he works the sheet out from under House's hand. House tries to shrug him off at first, but Wilson insists, moves lower.

Just once, he says. Just this.

 

***

 

"Fuck me," House says roughly. Wilson's hair brushes in front of his eyes. Sweat rolls down his temples, his ribs, and warms their skin as he rubs his dick against House's ass. The pads of his fingers press against House's ass, then inside, the lube slick between them.

"Harder," House says, "_fuck_ me." Wilson closes his eyes and thrusts in, deep. House squeezes around him, so good, so wanted. Wilson comes, every muscle clenching, House jerking himself off. They slump together afterwards, hot and gentled.

"Easier than dying," House says eventually, glancing at his hand before he wipes it clean on the sheet. "It's pretty damn hard, to die."

Wilson gapes, still panting hard. Anger nearly strangles him. "You want to die?"

"Did I say that?" House glances once at Wilson. His face is old, and blank. Then he rolls away, turning his back.

Every instant of pleasure shatters. Wilson's cold, his body flaccid and empty, the sweat between them chilled now and pointless. House acts like dying's the only way to answer whatever questions he has left, the last mystery to solve. Like this is nothing worth staying alive for. Nothing at all.

Fuck you, he says. Fuck this.

 

***

 

It's a fine morning, cold and clear. Wilson showers first, rolling his shoulders under the spray. You're going to live, he says. You're going to be fine.

Somehow, he's left enough of his things at House's apartment that he doesn't need to search for clean clothes. His pants are pressed, his shirts fresh in House's closet, one tie hooked over a hanger. He steals socks when House is using the bathroom. He stares into the empty fridge with resigned disbelief, and scrambles eggs for himself. House picks at a bowl of dry cereal and leans on the island, watching him. He doesn't say anything while Wilson eats and leaves his dishes in the sink.

"That hotel is a waste of money," he says, while Wilson reaches for his coat. House is still wearing pyjama pants, at a quarter to nine. "You're an idiot."

Wilson huffs a laugh. "I don't think so," he says, and walks out.

The sun's bright in his office, glaring. Wilson closes the blinds and tries to rub away a headache, the tension coiling in his neck. He has patients to see. All of them dying, in one way or another.

It's fine, he says.

It is.

 

_end_


End file.
